


Make me your one and only (but don’t make me your enemy)

by MeanderingMotivation



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Game of Thrones Spoilers, I stan two queens, In this house we love & appreciate two badass women, Lesbian Sansa Stark, Queen Daenerys, Shameless Smut, Strong Female Characters, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 10:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18497347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanderingMotivation/pseuds/MeanderingMotivation
Summary: Sansa is used to people calling her beautiful. She’s past feeling flattered.Still, there’s something about the dragon queen that she finds so appealing.Basically my opportunity to work: “Now you know what dragons eat.” into a fic





	Make me your one and only (but don’t make me your enemy)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey GoT, how about instead of pitting these two amazing women against one another they team up and rule together as badass queer queen icons?
> 
>  
> 
> Anywho, I usually ship Sansa with Margaery (RIP you deserved better) and Dany with Yara, but the first episode of the new season had me thinking. 
> 
> Mostly about how tedious this friction is going to be between Sansa and Daenerys. Why don't we have both?
> 
> In all seriousness though, I do love Jon and I felt a little weird writing this lol
> 
> FYI the smut is a little clumsy, since I'm not that accustomed to writing it. I hope it's good enough :)
> 
> Enjoy reading!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa is used to people calling her pretty. She’s been consistently complimented on her beauty for all of her life. She had once enjoyed the excessive compliments. Preened at them, even. It had pleased her, to note that her smooth red hair and immaculate furs were so admired.

She wanted to be the most beautiful girl in the world. The most beautiful queen, even. It was a bold wish, to compete with Cersei and her golden locks.

These days her aspirations for beauty and child-rearing were practically non-existent. She followed the motions, allowing herself to appear the way a Lady of Winterfell should appear. Her mother had always put her best foot forward, and Sansa tried to emulate that, even if she could never hope to be the same woman Catelyn was. Even if a lot of the time she felt as dead and flat as the trees withering in the north.

Beauty was only a weapon when wielded expertly, and Sansa had never learned to do that, despite Cersei’s sneering. She tried her hardest, as she always had, but most of the time…it hadn’t been enough.

But she’d learned, slowly, as she did with all things. Her numerous hardships had thoroughly educated her on the ways of the world, the world she’d seen as so lovely as a child. She was no longer a naïve little girl, no matter what other people may have believed. If they underestimated her, it was their immense mistake.  

Sansa was not one to overcompensate, or champion her own cleverness. Bragging about ones intelligence was something that could get you killed. It was better to observe, take everything in, and then make a move when the moment was right. Littlefinger had, admittedly, taught  her well.

There was a sort of ruthlessness to her now, but she did not mourn the child she had once been. This was her life now, and she endeavoured to take control in any way she could. Sometimes she erred, but one thing Sansa _did_ pride herself on (if it wasn’t her beauty) was her dedication to her family, and her loyalty to the northerners who fought under the Stark banner.

Which was why, frankly, she was upset with her brother. She felt he’d had a lapse in judgement by pledging his support to the Targaryen girl, by so flagrantly tossing aside the title he had been given. By risking everything they had worked for.

Certainly, she knew he had his reasons. Jon had always been…different to them. She’d struggled with that, in the past. But she was an adult now, and even if she didn’t agree completely with his decisions…

She would support him. A united front was what the north needed.

That didn’t, however, mean she had to like it, or meekly fall in line with this stranger. She had no intention of letting this woman walk all over them. She would stay focused on providing and protecting _her_ people, not the invaders Jon had brought with him. If that meant being stubborn, and a little disrespectful…

Well, she was no longer a fragile little girl. She could handle the disappointed looks from Jon, the righteous and dissatisfied _‘not-glares’_ from Daenerys, her risen eyebrows and thinned lips, the expectations of her people…

At least she had Arya, no matter how laughable such an idea would have been to her in her younger ~~foolish~~ years. If anyone had told her prior to leaving the North, that she’d one day count her little sister, _Arya_ , the wild little force of nature, as her main supporter and ally, she would have giggled. Giggled, like the stupid, spoiled little brat she had been.

Now she only allowed a small smirk to herself. She had not tamed Arya, but she had won her trust, something not so easily gained. It was a rare treasure she intended to cherish for the rest of her days, however short they may be. She loved her sister, fiercely, and would not take her for granted.

Her relationship with Jon...

She loved him, but she did not trust him so implicitly. She would make her own judgement of the dragon queen, and her dragons, and her ~~admittedly impressive~~ army.

Sansa had been called beautiful all of her life.

Frequently by her enemies.

“The north is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.”

Compliments could be disguised as many things, and Sansa does not fully detect sincerity in the dragon queen. Her words, whilst pleasant, are said in courtesy. Her smile, fixed and expectant.

Sansa supposes the other woman wants her to smile, to return the favour, to curtsy and bring her inside, to warm before the hearth, and _‘Oh Your Grace, how opposed are you to cannibalism? Because If you expect to bring the entirety of your army here, they may have to resort to eating one another before the white walkers slaughter us all.’_

Her returning smile gives nothing away, she sees the look in Daenerys's eyes change. _That’s it,_ she’s tempted to say, honeyed and entirely venomous, _I won’t be won over so easily._

She gets the feeling that Daenerys is not the type to pander. She’s a proud woman, it’s evident in the way she holds herself. By the way she regards the Northerners. She is, to Sansa, an open book.

_We’ll see,_ she thinks, even as she opens her mouth to reply tactfully, _who devours who in the end._

It may prove entertaining.

 

* * *

 

The general consensus by the northerners is that the dragon queen is not to be trusted. If she wants their loyalty, she’ll have to work for it. A feat that will prove hard, considering the lack of time she has to win them over. It is harder, when Lady Sansa appears leery, when she openly contradicts her. Her words spread.

_“What do dragons eat, anyway?”_

_“Whatever they want.”_

That side-look, brimming with restrained hostility and danger, Sansa would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a lurch of excitement at it. Heated, deep in her belly. It was a sensation she’d seldom felt in the past, cursed as she was in the romance department. Perhaps once or twice, when Margaery had looked at her in Kings Landing, that gorgeous face, all of her assets so proudly on display. 

Margaery had been deadly. She’d mastered what Sansa hadn’t, her beauty, and had no qualms about using it to achieve her own means.

Sad it hadn’t saved her in the end.

Sansa knew it wasn’t the time for such feelings. A great war was looming, in which her life, the entire _living world’s lives_ , were at stake. Who knew how many days they had left, how many _hours._

And the dragon queen was having dalliances with Jon, anyhow. She probably loved him.

And yet.

If there were only days, hours, _minutes_ left…did she really wish to perish with the only orgasm she’s ever experienced coming from her own hands, in her dark room at night?

It wouldn’t hurt Jon. Not if it was kept a secret.

But how to incite the would-be-queen’s interest?

Sansa snorted.

What a ridiculous notion. Daenerys was not the only woman who did not pander or plead.

Sansa would have what she wanted, achieved by her own means, and no one else’s.  

 

* * *

 

“I want the dragon queen brought here,” Sansa informed her sister, removing her heavy coat. She laid it down carefully over a nearby chair, and looked Arya in the face. The smaller female had her head cocked curiously, but her face was blank.

“Do you want me to kill her?” The complete lack of emotion is still startling, but Sansa doesn’t blanch. Not now. Arya had done what she’d had to, and that came with consequences. “I know you don’t fancy her, but Jon will be upset if we murder her.”

“I don’t want you to kill her,” Sansa denies, but she can’t resist a smile at the thought. There’s something so appealing, about the thought of wrapping her hands around her neck, and squeezing. Not enough to strangle her, but enough to…there’s that _warm_ feeling again. “I merely wish to speak with her in private. It’s a little hard for us to be candid with such an audience…”

“Candid.” Arya repeated, doubtfully. “You want to be _candid_ with the dragon lady.”

“You shouldn’t call her that.” Sansa admonished.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s disrespectful.”

“No more disrespectful than you speaking out against her.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Arya shrugged, carelessly. “No matter. If you really want to speak with her, I’ll bring her here. It shouldn’t be hard, I’ll just say Jon is waiting here naked. That ought to get her blood-pumping.”

Sansa grimaced, and Arya suddenly grinned, wicked and entirely teasing. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you _do_ fancy her, and that’s why you want me to bring her here, to your chambers. You do know seduction is usually more subtle, don’t you?”

“What would you know about seduction?” Abashment almost makes Sansa snappish, but she’s more amused than embarrassed. She refuses to be embarrassed, not for craving something everyone else craves for. She isn’t going to _force_ Daenerys, convince, however…

“Is this some sort of bribe?” Arya asks instead of answering. “Please tell me you aren’t whoring-“

“Arya, _stop_ ,” Sansa cut in, firmly. “It’s not like that.”

“Then good.” Arya believes her, instantly. The trust is enough to warm Sansa’s heart. “It’s about time you stopped being so repressed. Maybe if you and the dragon lady finally relieve some sexual tension, you can work together instead of letting your egos get in the way.”

“Go drool over that blacksmith you’re so fond of.” Sansa, ever so maturely, shoots back.

A mocking bow. “Of course, Lady Stark. But first, your dragon. Just make certain she doesn’t breathe fire.”

“She isn’t my dragon!”

Arya laughed.

“Arya!”

Sisters will always be sisters.

 

* * *

 

_"Now I’m here, what do you want to do with me?”_

In Sansa’s fantasy, Daenerys says this with a smirk. She’s dressed lighter, in attire more fitting of a warmer climate. Sansa can see the brief outline of one of her pink nipples, she reaches out a pale hand and flicks it lightly, traces the outline of her breast. _“Show me how heated a dragon can be.”_

“How dare you presume to order me to your personal chambers in the middle of the night.” Her voice is cold, but her eyes are smouldering.

Sansa finds she likes this better. “You are not dressed for bed, Your Grace.”

Indeed, she’s wearing her white furs, although her silver hair has unwound slightly. She looks tired, and cold. She’s not adjusted to the climate.

_I can fix that._

“A Queen never rests.”

“How noble of you.”

Daenerys visibly bristles, and Sansa is both impressed and irritated by her temper. “As delighted as I am to be treated to your sarcasm, unless there is a purpose for this meeting, I will be leaving.”

Arya, who had been idly toying with Needle, steps covertly back in the doorway.

Daenerys’s jaw tenses. “I refuse to be kept as a prisoner in the place _I am saving_ from obliteration. If you do not let me pass now, your brother will hear of this later.”

Sansa snorts again. “We are not children, Your Grace. I do not fear consequences from my brother.”

“If you want Sansa to be spanked, you’ll have to do it yourself.” Arya says, innocuously.

Daenerys opens her mouth, closes it. She casts a critical eye around the chambers, eyes lingering on Sansa’s state of dress, or lack thereof. The other woman had stripped off considerately, only donning a cotton shawl. Her long red hair hung loose over her slim neck. “I see,” She says, the indignation dissipating as quick as it had come. “You are aware that I do not trade sex for favours, no matter what the rumours say.”

“I pay no heed to those rumours.” _Those_ rumours. “I’ve been called a whore by men nearly my entire life, even when I was a virgin. Men love expressing their disdain for strong women, and whore is one of their favourite insults. I pity them for their sense of inadequacy.”

Daenerys blinked, her full lips stretching into something more sincere. “We finally find something to agree on.”

“I think you’ll find we can both be rather agreeable,” Provocatively, Sansa slowly lowered herself onto the bed, sweeping her hair over her back. She looked at Daenerys with half-lidded eyes, a clear provocation. Even positioned as she was, she was still nearly taller than the other woman. “In the right circumstances.”

“In the right bed, you mean.” Daenerys’s voice is not dismissive. It’s contemplative. “Have you always wanted to fuck a queen, or am I the first lucky recipient of your affections? I can hardly imagine you prostrating yourself like this before Cersei.”

_That_ was nearly enough to make the mood sizzle for Sansa, if not for the way Daenerys was suddenly staring at her, the flames from the fireplace flickering over her perfectly sculpted features.

“We could all be dead soon,” Sansa had no qualms being honest. “I’ve never had a particular yearning to fuck a queen, but you are…” She forces her face into the expression she usually wore around the dragon queen. “ _Very pretty_ , Your Grace.”

“I am used to being desired. I don’t enjoy making it a game.”

“I don’t intend on being _played._ ”

“You don’t?”

“I think I should leave.” Arya spoke up, and the two women flushed. In all of their flirtation, they’d forgotten the small girl was present. She blended so well into the shadows. “But before I do,” Her gaze hardened. “Both of you must promise not to hurt Jon. I won’t forgive anyone who hurts him.”

“You need not worry,” Daenerys is genuine. “I will not allow your brother to be hurt.”

“And my sister?”

A smirk, smouldering eyes glowing brighter. “That I cannot promise.”

 

* * *

 

Talking stops entirely.

Daenerys strips with complete and utter confidence, displaying her body with a sort of cockiness Sansa is envious of. Her skin is immaculate, breasts rounded and nipples as tantalisingly pink as Sansa had envisioned. She’s shaved everywhere, and Sansa is a little disappointed. She’d wanted to see what colour accentuated her cunt.

Sansa’s dripping at just the sight. She supposes she should feel ashamed at how quickly she’s become aroused, but such musings are shoved aside as the silver-haired woman climbs onto the bed, crawls over to her.

It’s so submissive. Kittenish. Sansa feels something animalistic in her surge, her mouth forms into a snarl.

Before she can caution herself, she’s surging up, grasping Daenerys’s slim shoulders and manhandling her underneath her own form. She half expects the other woman to fight, to try and reverse their positions, but Daenerys goes limps, allows the movement. Her smirk is still there, smug and self-assured, and Sansa captures her lips with a growl. It’s a messy kiss, one riddled with inexperience on Sansa’s part, but Daenerys guides her, and opens her lips pliantly, allowing Sansa to probe her tongue in eagerly. She licks at the roof of her mouth, tastes mutton and ale. She explores every inch of the cavern, and when she pulls back, she bites down _hard_ on her lower lip.

Daenerys lets out a throaty moan.

Sansa sucks at the small cut she’s made, ignores the tangy taste of blood, and takes some deep, steeling breaths. It was all such a rush, her brain had seemed to cease functioning.

It’s addictive.

Daenerys’s hands snake up around her back, loosening what little clothing Sansa has left, before tearing it away entirely. The sensation of warm hands on her bare skin makes her jolt, and she lets out a moan of her own when Daenerys drags her nails down her back, just hard enough to sting.

_Wolves bite, and dragons have claws._

Sansa reaches for her nightstand, fumbles, and finally reaches a small oil container. She keeps her eyes trained on Daenerys as she slicks up her fingers, watches the other woman squirm in anticipation as Sansa leans down and licks a stripe up her neck, thumbs a nipple to erection.

When she reaches between her legs, Daenerys parts them. The willingness makes Sansa practically _pulsate_ with desire, but she wants to do this. She wants to be inside of Daenerys, wants to feel her heat around her fingers. Wants to feel her _rock on them-_

Still, Sansa is tentative as she gently inches a finger inside. This is her first time navigating a body that isn’t hers, and although they both evidently enjoyed a little pain, the last thing she wanted was to spoil the mood by hurting the other woman in such an intimate place. She knew how that felt, after all. How painful-

_Don’t go there. **Focus.** This is you reclaiming something you never should have lost._

Experimentally, she flexes her finger, and panics a little when Daenerys gives no reaction. What if she couldn’t find the spot, what if she stayed like this for _hours_ , trying to find-

“Crook it a little.” Daenerys’s voice is startlingly clear. “You’ll know it when you-“ She moans loudly then, drawn out, Sansa grins in satisfaction, having adjusted slightly and taken the woman’s advice.

There’s something so liberating in this. Pleasuring another woman. A queen, no less.

Feeling more confident, Sansa continues, leaning back over Daenerys to leave a trail of blazing kisses down her neck, holding back the urge to sink in her teeth. Every moan the other woman gives is fuel to her fire, and she feels Daenerys come as she grazes her mouth over her right breast, the queen tensing up and letting out a strangled groan loud enough to have Sansa worry about being disturbed.

She pulls out her moist fingers, catches Daenerys’s blissful eyes, and very deliberately brings them to her mouth. She sucks on them harshly, the slurping sound positively sinful. She doesn’t know whether she likes the salty flavour or not.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys finally gets out, breathless. “You really are a beast in the sheets.”

Sansa is still thinking of a suitably witty response when Daenerys rolls her hips, grasping Sansa’s arms and rolling her until their positions are reversed. Sansa opens her mouth, and the other woman raises a finger to her lips. “My turn, Lady Stark.”

Sansa hadn’t entirely expected the reciprocation, but she wasn’t about to complain. Not when Daenerys Targaryen was looming so imposing, her hair a halo, her eyes liquid fire as they glowed in the shadowy room. Her lip was still sluggishly dripping blood, and Sansa leaned up to kiss her again-

Only for Daenerys to push her back down firmly. “My turn, Lady Stark.” She repeated, authoritatively. She palmed at Sansa’s own smaller breasts, pinching one of her nipples until Sansa yelped. “You would do well not to interrupt your queen.”

“Just…just get on with it, then.” Sansa said, impatiently. There was a hint of a demand in her voice. She refused to beg.

“I will not be hurried.” Daenerys said, ghosting a breath over Sansa’s breasts. “Understand?”

“I-“ Sansa gasped when Daenerys took one of her nipples into her mouth, her hand rolling the other nub in her hand. It was a sensation she’d never experienced before, and it only made her more eager. She arched into the touch, moaning when Daenerys sucked hard. “Gods…”

Daenerys released her breasts, but not without one last appreciative squeeze. Her eyes looked Sansa up and down, and she hummed in wonder, a hand tracing down her slim thigh to rest on the thin red hairs nestled between her hips. “I’ve never seen it this colour before,” She said, conversationally. “I like it.” She tugged on the strands playfully, before sliding down the bed.

Sansa watched her go with bewilderment. “What-“

“Hold onto the bed-sheets,” Daenerys ordered. “And try not to scream.”

The momentary confusion melted away, when she saw Daenerys duck between her legs.

Immediately she propped them up, bringing them closer to her waist. If this was going to happen ~~oh gods she wanted this to happen~~ she wanted to see Daenerys at work. She wanted to see that beautiful face, capable of so much expression, buried in her cunt.

Never in her wildest fantasies, had she expected the queen to perform _this_ particular act on her. It was unspeakably lewd, and since Daenerys had likely never had sex with a woman before (like Sansa) she hadn’t expected her to be so confident-

Hot breath hits her, and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat. She peers down over her heaving chest, clutches at the bed-sheets, and sees Daenerys, eyes never leaving hers, open her mouth, her tongue darting out and-

Sansa moans as tight heat encases her clit, whimpering as it pulls away. It’s better than anything she’s ever felt before, far superior to her own clumsy wandering-

The tongue flicks at her clit a few times, before Daenerys’s tongue ~~so talented~~ continues its work. Licking, slurping, _fucking_ , all of the sensations are so exquisite, so earth-shattering-

Sansa clenches her fists, feels her eyes closing even as she tries to keep them open.

Her chambers are filled with the sounds of wet slurping, and muted moans. She’s biting the back of her own hand, not confident in her ability to remain quiet. She doesn’t want this discovered, and the thought of being caught is not a titillating one for her. It would compromise her reputation.

But who would ever think that Daenerys Targaryen would do _this_ for her.

When Sansa climaxes, it’s harder than she’s ever managed before. Her world goes white, she loses control of her voice, and it’s only when Daenerys smacks her hard on her bottom thigh that she manages to come back to herself, sated and blissful.

“Now,” Daenerys wipes at her mouth primly, like she hadn’t just been tonguing Sansa’s most intimate place a moment ago. “You know what dragons eat.”

Sansa doesn’t have it in her to do anything other than laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Time to drift back into the void until inspiration hits again. 
> 
> I hope my characterisation of these two awesome ladies was adequate, if not a little clumsy :)
> 
> Lemme know what you think, if you'd like!


End file.
